


Distance

by varooooom



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage, and then some other horrible things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:31:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1769098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varooooom/pseuds/varooooom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took seventy years and a miracle, but Steve only cares that they're finally here. Prompted by <a href="http://buckybarnesss.tumblr.com/post/88375382740/otpprompts-imagine-your-otp-at-the-altar-of-a">this</a> tumblr post; spoilers in the prompt!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, the prompt spells out the whole thang so don't read it unless you're cool with that. The idea immediately struck me and I wanted to try my own flavour of it, so yeah. Yeeeah.
> 
> This one is for [buckybarnesss](http://buckybarnesss.tumblr.com), whose tumblr is rude and awful and forced me to do this terrible thing.

Everyone thought it'd be Bucky that would get cold feet on the big day, falling back into the playboy that couldn't settle down to save his life, but Steve's the one that can't really feel his toes as he's walking down the aisle. The edges of the room exist somewhere beyond him, the faces of his friends and allies blurring together as he walks for what feels like eternity; the only thing that's clear, vivid, _perfect_ is Bucky himself, watching him with the smirk of a cat that got the cream.

It makes Steve feel utterly ridiculous, seeing Buck in his crisp black tailored suit, looking the part of every penny spent on it, and thinks of what a sorry sight he must make in all white. A joke, by all accounts, that Natasha probably came up with and left Clint and Tony in tears for days, but no one laughed harder than Steve and Bucky. He thinks of the fitting and feels like he's living it all over, all their childish snickering and slapping each other's arms like they hadn't been through the same thing a dozen times over for their various uniforms.

"You daydreaming on me, pal?"

Bucky's voice pulls him back, and suddenly he's at the altar, doesn't remember getting there but his hands are in Bucky's and it doesn't matter, he's too high on elation to care.

"Might be," he quips to Bucky's all-too-pleased smirk with the squeeze of his hands; just like his toes, he can't feel those either, and a loud thrumming starts up in his chest.

"Don't get all sappy on me just yet, we haven't even started the ceremony," Bucky chides and knocks their foreheads together for lack of having a better way to push back in the same gentle wrestling they've carried over a lifetime. A fond coo sounds from their audience and Bucky rolls his eyes; Steve can't feel his cheeks heating, but he imagines his flush is unflatteringly bright in contrast to his tux. Yet Bucky still marvels at him as though _he's_ the one that hit the jackpot and took home the impossible prize.

As if. There will never be another man alive more fortunate than Steve in this moment. This is it. This is _everything_.

"You sure you wanna go through with this?" Bucky asks for not the first, third, or tenth time. Steve already feels like crying, it's so absurd.

"Buck, there are a lot of things I'm not sure about in my life right now. I mean, I've got a Norse god as one of my groomsmen and the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. is presiding over a wedding that would've been illegal when I was _actually_ twenty-five." 

Bucky laughs and Nick coughs beside them, as impatient as ever. Steve smiles and continues, barrels on through the only way he knows how because this moment is so important, so precious and fragile that it's probably a good thing his hands have gone numb from the nerves so that he can't feel how tightly he's holding on. How scared he is of breaking it. Bucky's eyes are so blue, the same brilliant sky blue they were the first day Steve met him, and he _has_ to let him know. He has to know what Steve never got the chance to say before.

No one gets a second chance like this.

"All that, and there's just one thing I'm absolutely sure of. I know that I love you, and now I've got you, I'm not letting you go. Not this time." He swallows, and Bucky lifts his left hand to his cheek and pulls him closer. Steve leans into the touch and wishes he wasn't too flustered to feel the warmth of his fingers. He can hardly get enough oxygen to his lungs to say it but he has to. He _has_ to; his voice shakes but he smiles again.

"Not ever. You're it for me, Bucky. The end of my line."

Bucky shakes his head, lips twitching with a smirk he can't really restrain, and then he swears. "Aw, Hell with the vows," and he pushes in those last few inches to kiss away what little breath Steve has left.

And he shoots forward, gasping to get it back. His chest heaves and a white star heaves with him, pushing air into desperate lungs. Natasha blinks at him, unfazed.

"Welcome back," she deadpans, raising a brow. He looks around briefly to get his bearings and quiets his breathing guiltily. "I don't think I've ever seen you doze off like that. Out late last night?"

Steve takes a moment to process the vibrations beneath him and the tightness of his suit across his chest. He lets a soft huff escape him, and even that much seems like sparing too much. "Sorry, I have a strict eight o'clock bedtime after my last Antiques Roadshow."

She smiles and he takes that as an inch enough to stretch his limbs out, crack a few of his joints, and get the blood flowing back to his fingertips. But she doesn't stop watching him; he should've figured it wouldn't be that easy to get out of her web.

"Where'd you go?"

It's quiet, secretive. No one else would hear and if they did, they'd know better than to listen to the answer. But Steve sits in silence and swallows several times, hard, staring at his hands in his lap. At the empty spaces between his fingers. He inhales. Exhales. Stands and walks steadily down the aisle.

"All right, Rumlow. Tell me about the Lemurian Star."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now my secret headcanon for why Cap was overly violent and willing to recklessly accept Batroc's challenge in this mission. Guy's in a bad way. Someone should probably hug him.
> 
> Also man, did I really wanna put Sam in this, but it wouldn't have made sense at this canon point. I'munna be starting some Sam-centric stuff soon because everyone needs more Sam Wilson in their lives.


	2. Adrift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is probably unhealthy and maybe a little bit dangerous, but Steve doesn't know how to stop it. Or if he even wants it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on continuing this at all but then [kellyc](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/11156344) said something about a sequel and I got a bunch of ideas about different scenarios under the same prompt. I'll post them here as I write them!

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Bucky says in a huff, but he grins too widely for it not to be caught by the moon. Steve's hit with the sudden overwhelming urge to draw him like this, windswept and backlit by all the stars in the galaxy, but there's a time and a place. 

And this - this is _the_ time and place. The only one that matters.

"You ran to the car before I did, Buck, I didn't have to talk you into anything." 

A rush of wind sends chills crawling across his skin, and Steve doesn't even care enough to wish they'd actually packed any bags before driving all the way out here. Of all the long and arduous trips he's taken to classified locations, this is one he'd take a thousand times over. Just him and Bucky, cruising down the freeway and singing along to songs neither of them actually know as out of tune as possible. These are the kinds of things they should've been able to do when they were this young without decades and wars behind them. Making up for lost time, for _everything_ , which was rather the point of all this.

"Besides," Steve reaches out for Bucky's hand and gives him a little bit of a childish tug, "you always said you wanted to see the Grand Canyon."

"I dunno if you noticed, Cap, but, uh," Bucky looks around them, eyebrows raised, but his bright blue eyes are still shining with the stars, "it's dark as fuck right now, and I can't see shit."

"Don't swear at our wedding, you jerk," Steve slaps his shoulder with his free hand, both of them laughing because it's still true. The canyon is full to the brim with the night sky, and the only things either of them can see clearly are the on-site minister and each other. It's perfect. It's all they need.

"Really, though," Bucky says quieter, ducking his head and kicking idly at Steve's booted toes. "Months of going through the ringer with planners and the press and _Nat_ , then you out of the blue ask me to elope and we can't even wait the few hours for morning?"

"No." Steve's answer is immediate, which makes Bucky look up sharply. He swallows and eases into a smile, "We've waited long enough, Buck. And - I know you'll call me a sap, but. I don't want to live another second without you."

Steve's seen a hundred impossible things, but the way Bucky's eyes light up even further the moment it all clicks into place - it'd be enough to make any man find faith. Simple but sure, faith in something that he can reach out and touch and love. Bucky shakes his head.

"I hope you can officiate this one quickly, Father, 'cause I'm gonna kiss this guy in three, two, one -"

" _Steve_."

He startles at the pressure of a hand against his shoulder, and does his best not to flinch away from the sudden flood of pale light into his eyes. Another gush of wind hits him as the air conditioning stutters again, sending cold air directly his way and making Steve shiver. It's not shaking. Really. Just ... chills.

Sam frowns, backing away enough to give Steve room to breathe.

"You all right, man?"

"Yeah," Steve answers hollowly in two different ways, still trying to slow his pulse and get air back in his lungs. He looks around at the rows of empty chairs in front of him and if his heart could sink any further - "Aw, geez. I'm sorry, Sam, I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Hey, don't worry about it," he says in that way that is solely unique to him, the first and only that makes you feel like you really, honestly don't have to worry. Sam pulls one of the creaky metal chairs around to sit in front of Steve, leaning forward on his knees to stay close without hovering. "We all come here for something, and if I can get you comfortable enough to actually catch some z's, I'm not complaining. You've been looking a little rough around the edges."

When Sam's only seen him maybe a handful of times, Steve doesn't want to know about what he's tried and failed to hide from everyone else. God help him if Natasha ever catches him alone. He pulls off his baseball cap and runs his hand through his hair, sighing. Came here for something, didn't he?

"I haven't been sleeping lately. Moreso than usual," he adds with a small smile for their first conversation. Sam returns it, but only briefly. They both know the kinds of things that can linger in a soldier's dreams.

"Nightmares?"

"No." Again, too quickly, and this time feels like a foul blow to the gut. He doesn't want to consider the idea that Bucky might be haunting him. Steve drops his head into his hands, rubbing at his eyes. "I don't know, maybe. I dream of the battlefield all the time, you know? And I know how to handle those, they're just memories or … my brain's screwed up embellishments of them. I can deal with that."

He looks up to find Sam watching him, listening intently not just to his words but how he says them. Steve's an open book, but almost no one reads him better, because almost no one cares as much as Sam. It makes him feel self-conscious without being _exposed_. If he had to assign any one word to it, the obvious choice would be 'safety', the kind that makes it okay to be anything but. Steve smiles again, something a little more bitter this time.

"At least, for the most part. But these," a shake of his head, "these are more like the 'what if' scenarios. And that can be -"

"Dangerous," Sam finishes for him, sitting back a little in his own seat. The hardest part of any mental or emotional conflict can be putting it into words; Sam does it for others, and he's painfully good at it. Steve sighs again, goes back to rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms until Sam speaks again after a moment, softer this time.

"Back in Afghanistan, me and Riley - we'd make all these plans, right? For what we'd do when we got out."

Steve looks back up, brows furrowed. This is the sort of thing that deserves your whole attention, and he finds Sam paying the same interest right back. Still reading him, even while he spells out a chapter of his own story, which only makes Steve look for the parallels. 

His best friend. His wingman. ' _It's like I was up there just to watch_.' Sam smiles and bounces his head in a slight nod.

"You know how it is. Only way to pass the time, when you're running on adrenaline and grub, trying to get the image of a Humvee flipping off the road from a buried IED out of your mind." He's perfectly calm and composed, and Steve wonders not for the first time how Sam has the strength to do this everyday. He just carries right on. "And you never say anything _reasonable_ , nah. You gotta make plans to like ... build a house from scratch with your bare hands, or buy a boat and sail around the world blind. Me and Riley told everyone we were gonna be the world's first international bear wrestling champions."

Steve laughs quietly, shaking his head, and tries not to think about how much Bucky would've liked Sam, or how well he and Riley might've fit in with the Commandos. It's probably why Sam is telling him all of this in the first place. Sam shares a grin and shrugs helplessly.

"Yeah, haven't exactly gotten around to it yet," he says gently, with that subtle hint of remorse that comes with every whisper for something lost. "My point is - it's real easy to get caught up on the future when everything around you is looking a little bleak. Then sometimes we get there and realize the future isn't all that much better. It ain't always a straight line, but we still gotta walk it."

There it is, the bite. It sinks its teeth in deep, leaves marks exactly where it's supposed to. Steve never really planned for much in his life; he went where he could, where he was able, with Bucky pushing him forward every time he stumbled. The first and only thing he really made a goal of was joining the army, and that wasn't a plan he had any illusions of finishing without sleeping beneath the flag. The way his dad did, the way Bucky should've.

( Ironic, then, that Steve still slept with the Stars and Stripes across his chest, only to wake up again seventy years later. He can't even die properly without complicating things. )

But he didn't, and he's here, and now he has to find a new path. He misses his friends and Bucky is dead - he's dreaming of a life he'll never get to live, and it's the happiest he's never been. Steve didn't stop to consider that he might have to walk his line alone.

At least - he was never supposed to walk it without Bucky.

Sam sighs, and every word that comes afterwards is calculated, the weight of each one measured carefully because this isn't easy. It never will be.

"Look, I know you said you don't know what makes you happy, and I respect that. It's hard enough to figure out for people that were actually born in this century." Steve snorts; Sam smiles faintly. "Just … do me a favor, man. Whatever plans you made, or didn't make - don't let that be it for you. You deserve more than that. You've lived on ice long enough."

"Time to make new plans," Steve agrees with a sigh. He hangs his head again, running both hands through his hair. He's not alone. He _isn't_ \- or he doesn't have to be. Bucky would be giving him a boot in the ass right about now, wouldn't he?

Or. Maybe he should stop trying to figure out what Bucky would be doing, or thinking, or saying with Brooklyn written in his smirk. _Come on, Rogers_.

He inhales deeply and steels himself, looks back up to Sam with a weak smile. He can't thank him, half because he's not sure he can manage what Sam is asking of him ( _for_ him ) and half because it would never be enough, not for what Sam's given him ( understanding, patience, kindness, a firm slap back into reality ); he raises his brows instead, teasing. "Bear wrestling, huh?"

Sam chuckles and shakes his head, taking the subject change for exactly what it is. "Do not ever go camping with me, man, I'll get us in trouble."

Steve laughs, stands and puts his cap back on, holding out his hand to shake Sam's. "I look forward to it."

It's about damn time he looked forward to something that's _real_ \- but the image of Bucky smiling under the moonlight remains, and Steve is only human. He can't just let go.

Not yet. He'll try, but - not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the Grand Canyon is pitch black in Steve's dream because he's never actually seen it. Couldn't go without Bucky, could he?


	3. Estrange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This stopped being funny a long time ago, and Natasha isn't laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah, a new chapter at long last! I still have a few more planned out if I can remember what they were aha ha ahh sad whale noises. Hopefully I'll get those written eventually. The next one will be short, so I might have it up soon. Thanks for being patient with me!

There's a silent, steady rhythm, the low-constant turning of wheels in Steve's head. It's rote by now. Get out of the car with a smile already in place, wave and nod politely, but stay determined and don't slow or stop until you're past the doors. Being some kind of celebrity isn't fun by any means; Steve only manages to get through it by approaching it like any other op. Nothing will get between him and his end goal.

Bucky, on the other hand, is terrible with the attention. Most days, he basks in it like a kitten in sunlight. He jokes and flirts and gives his best shit-eating grin for the masses to eat up and swoon. Steve rolls his eyes, impatient as ever for Buck's preening, but it's all for show. The other days, the days when he doesn't have the energy for pretending, that shit-eating grin has a hint of malice and reporters aren't sure whether to be turned on or scared.

Steve still rolls his eyes, but it's all fond exasperation. Being Captain America's boyfriend isn't easy, and Bucky takes it like a champ.

Today is a good day for him to drop his pretenses, and irritation wrinkles its way into the once-crisp cut of Bucky's slacks. He looks _murderous_ , leg bouncing higher with every bare inch the car manages to creep forward through the throngs of cameras and microphones and handmade signs. Some of them sing of praise and support for their relationship. Others aren't as genial. They all look blank to Steve. An entire lifetime of rolling with the punches has taught him not to let words get to him - at least not outwardly, not where others can see, but Bucky's always seen right through him and that's likely what's got him on edge. Indignance on Steve's behalf. Overprotective jerk.

The car comes to a stop, and after what feels like an eternity, it's finally because they've reached their destination. The church is ostentatious and Bucky huffs in distaste, looks away from the windows where crowds of people are still well within sight. Steve smiles meekly and tangles their fingers together.

"Hey," he says, but Bucky refuses to look at him.

"They _do_ know you ain't actually a practicing Catholic, right?" Bucky grouses, glaring at nothing in particular. Steve wants to kiss the furrow between his brows, wants to smother them both in their blankets and forget any of this ever happened.

But it's important. It's worth the stress. It's worth the _world_.

"It looks good on paper," Steve says instead. He tugs their joined hands, trying to get Bucky back with him, but it still doesn't work.

"And we care what the press says? I wanted to marry my Captain, not America."

Steve's heart thuds painfully in his chest, fondness and guilt and a little bit of shame all mixed in. Bucky never really liked the uniform, for all that he's made crude observations about Steve's ass in it since the very first USO poster, and Steve knows it's because of the image it paints on him. Bucky has no illusions about who Steve is, knows all of his best and worst traits as well as his fingernails. That the world can't see that, that their country projects whatever they _want_ to see onto him instead - Bucky hates it, and he reminds Steve all the time.

He hates Captain America but he loves Steve Rogers, and this is why Steve has never been able to let him go. Will never be able to let him go.

"Hey." He squeezes their fingers one last time, growing desperate, and Bucky finally obliges him in time to see the sadness in Steve's eyes. "Don't think like that, okay? I don't care where we do it, who shows up, or how it's done. As long as I have you, Buck, now and forever. That's all that matters."

Bucky's pursed lips crack into a smile he can't contain, though he tries and tries and turns it into a smirk. It's a victory if Steve ever had one. He pulls him in closer, doesn't know when or how they made it to the altar, can't remember moving but the pastor is talking and it's over, now, it's ending soon. Steve's heard _pounds_.

"And besides, we just talked through the whole thing anyway, so you should really kiss me now," he says quickly. 

Bucky laughs, "Sir, yes sir," and his laughter rings like church bells in Steve's ears, drowning out that steady rhythm of -

The tires make a _thwap thwap thwap_ sound as they cross the red side of the road markers, the sound muted beneath the loud blaring of a truck's horn. Steve swears loudly and jerks the steering wheel to the right, dragging them sharply back onto the right side of the road. His breathing comes panicked, ragged, familiar in a way asthma never can be again, and his heart _aches_.

Natasha is staring at him from the shotgun seat, still seated comfortably with her eyes wide open. Steve's neck burns; she sees too much, so much more than what little he lets reach the surface. He keeps driving, awake now, but he knows she won't relent.

"You don't get to get out of this one, Rogers. You almost got me killed," she says with that clean, practiced deadpan of hers. They both know it'd take more than that to put her out of commission. She shifts in her seat, shoulder braced against the door to face him in full. ( She looks like she wants to put her legs up in the seat and only just manages to hold back, but he's too tired to take credit. ) "Talk to me.

It's only for the note of genuine concern in her voice, he tells himself. Because she actually cares in her own way, however terrible she is at showing it. That's why he gives in, inhales deeply and shakes his head and ignores the fact that something is crumbling inside of him.

"I dunno, Nat, I just," he stops, shakes his head again. He doesn't know how to explain. "I think I'm just tired."

"It's been a rough few days, I'll give you that," she shrugs, like a covert rescue mission covering the theft of government property leading up to the murder of their director by a masked man with a robotic limb that can match _Steve_ in strength and speed is just ' _a rough few days_ '. He scoffs something of a laugh and it makes her smile. "But I've seen you go for longer on less sleep than this. There's something else."

He considers denying it, decides it isn't worth the effort of trying to lie to the Black Widow. If the last few hours have proven anything, it's that Steve _really_ isn't cut out for the spy business. 

"Yeah," he allows. A minute passes in silence, only the quiet sound of the tires steadily treading asphalt, but Steve can still feel Natasha's gaze. It speaks louder than any questions she might ask of him. His fingers tap on the wheel, simultaneously looking for words and wondering how she makes him feel like a child when he's twice her size and age. A sigh, and he continues, "I'm having these - dreams. I guess."

"Of someone you miss?" she supplies, her tone still carefully devoid of any implications or judgment. He exhales hotly.

"That obvious?"

"You just asked me to be your friend, Steve. I know what desperation looks like."

He chances a look away from the road to find her still looking at him calmly, unmoved. They're both good at the self-deprecating humor thing. He wonders if this is the only way they can ever be honest with each other - but she's right, rude as it may be to state it so plainly. The world is different, bigger in a dozen different ways, and Steve's never felt more alone. There were so few things tying him to anything that resembled a home, and he lost all of them in the War. Everything.

Desperation isn't far off.

He turns back to the road to hide the heat that burns behind his eyes, and speaks to the last rays of sunlight on the horizon.

"Someone I loved."

Silence lingers with the past tense they both know is another lie. His gaze stays steadfast on someplace far from here, but Steve still notices when something flickers on her face, there and gone again as she lays back into her seat. She doesn't dig any further, and he wants to be grateful, wants to be glad of the reprieve.

But he can still hear church bells ringing and laughter that has no place at a wedding. They ring for the dead and Steve would give anything, _anything_ to break the silence, if he had anything left to give.

He keeps on driving.


	4. Digression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This has to stop. It has to. Or Steve will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said it would be short, so here it is!

He doesn't sleep that night in the bunker. Natasha doesn't either even though she's fatigued from blood loss, but Fury is the best at playing hypocrite and Maria settles the silent squabbling by telling them _both_ to get some rest. She's not long behind them, and Sam had already been nodding off by the end of their debriefing, has only held on this long for Steve's sake. Adrenaline burnt out a long time ago, and "the crash is killer when you've been outta the game awhile," Sam says when Steve tells him to follow after the others. He makes one last offer to stay up with him, then runs off grinning like a child when Steve reaches out to swat at his head.

These are good people, good soldiers. There's a possibility every single one of them might die tomorrow.

There's a possibility Bucky might be the one that kills them.

Steve doesn't sleep. He can't. If he sees Bucky smile for him, just for him, he doesn't know that he'll be able fight him off tomorrow. Seven million lives aren't worth a fleeting glimpse of happiness.

There's no room for it in war. That isn't Steve's life. 

So he doesn't sleep, and tries instead to convince himself the fight didn't leave him with the vacant look in his best friend's eyes.


End file.
